The Art of Treachery
by nathan-p
Summary: FAX, FAEGA. As part of an elaborate plot by Itex, Omega and Fang escape a School-like facility together. Fang believes Omega to be a female -- and falls in love with "her"... to Max's chagrin. Hilarity and fluff ensues. Post-bk. 3. Complete.
1. Prologue & Note

The Art of Treachery

Prologue / Author's Note:

This is not strictly an author's note. It's not much of a prologue either. It's here so I don't have to keep interrupting over the course of the story.

Well. Um. First things first:

The update schedule is _Monday / Wednesday / Friday / Sunday_. (This and the next chapter were posted on a Tues, the third chapter on the following Thurs, and then I got bored and twitchy.) I took the trouble to _finish_ the story before I started posting (even though it's badly in need of editing -- you're reading the first draft here), so unless something dreadful happens to me, updates will be regular. (And I'm not enough of a cocktease to only give you this until Thursday; as you can see, the first section is posted as well. This will go the same for the last author's note as well; it will be posted immediately following the proper epilogue.)

Just like anyone else, I really appreciate reviews. (After all, I spent slightly over a month drafting this. Feedback would be absolutely amazing, so take just a minute. Yes, I accept anonymous reviews.)

I am not a guy. Therefore, guys, your criticism is _especially_ welcome.

I've also never been shot at, nor am I transgender. Both of those, even though I've played them for comedy, are Serious Business. This is fanfic, and it is not Serious Business. By all means, take my word for nothing and look into the topics for real if you want to know more.

Yes, this is my first real fic without any OCs. Advice is greatly appreciated, as I researched into Fang's character the most, with everyone else basically left in the dust.

In the same vein. I've gone off of canon information, but I've put my own twist to it. I _know_ that my portrayal of Omega is ridiculously untraditional. I did that on purpose. Nevertheless, if he displays any bizarre deviations from his usual personality as established here, I'd like to know. You'll be credited in the edited version.

As far as canon, I began work before book 4 came out, and have basically ignored it. However, there's not a lot preventing you from pretending book 4 happened in the interval, so if you want to, do so.

As to warnings? Rated T for language (I seem to recall a few F-bombs) and fairly non-graphic sex. Do not want? I'll warn at the beginning of the sex-containing chapter, but otherwise, don't read. (Also, there are some really dreadful one-liners. Be on the lookout. Omega is also a pretentious bastard, so for fun and joy I'll provide an index of all the literary references he makes at the end.) )

I've also borrowed JP's characters, and if he's reading this, I apologize. Thoroughly. Sure, literarily it's pretty good, but I sure am sorry about ganking your characters for it.

This is a first draft. Therefore, your input on what could be better is highly appreciated. _Any_ input -- as long as it doesn't outright interfere with the plot, I'll consider it. Just like with OOC criticism, you will be in the dedications for the edited version.

Also. Before you hit back -- although if you were going to, I think you already would have -- because you think this turns out bad, it doesn't. This is one of those stories that turns out happy in the end. Unlike _Romeo and Juliet_. Everyone lives, everyone gets a pretty happy ending.

As far as dedications?

This one goes out to mergirl007 and mride-for-life, who helped out with the idea, and to any closet Omega fans who wanted more fic. (I'm looking at a few of you in particular.) I'd also like to laud mride-for-life very briefly, as I believe they came up with the term "Faega". You may thank them if this becomes a popular pairing.


	2. Blue Heaven pt 1

"Hey. Hey, you." My fingers twined in the chicken-wire mesh. Is he paying any attention?

"Psst. Hey." Still not working, and my hands are a smidge too wide to reach through the chicken-wire. "Fang. Hey."

He looks at me. I know what he thinks he's seeing:

A pretty girl, about fourteen or fifteen. Blonde, unwashed hair, hanging loosely around her shoulders. Silvery-grey eyes. Maybe the hair is a little more brown than blonde, but it's still light, unwashed, and about shoulder length. She's kind of cute -- I don't know his taste in girls -- with a fragile face and pale skin, with a cluster of little pimples near the part of her hair. She might be tall, but who can tell right now?

"What did you do to get yourself on violent ward?" Don't talk so fast. Maybe you're blessed with a magically androgynous voice, but don't talk so fast. You're a shy girl, and you've heard all the marvelous things about him. Talk. Slow.

He raises one eyebrow.

I gesture with the hand not gripping the chicken-wire. Walls, painted pristine white. Concrete floor. Plain ceiling -- thin metal frame supporting styrofoam tiles. The fifteen other kids in fifteen other makeshift cages. "You beat up a scientist?"

"Them?" The eyebrow goes back up and his eyes indicate the hall outside the cages. "Not worth it."

I smile, flashing my imperfect smile -- gotta get some dental work done when I'm not seducing enemies of progress -- at him. My stomach's getting all fluttery with excitement. That's okay. I'm supposed to be nervous.

"I thought that was really cool, the way you rallied all those kids with your blog." I grin again, focusing on the corners of my eyes, trying to produce a credible Duchenne smile. Look genuine, just look genuine.

He looks at me; I think his eyes are asking if that's what I think.

"I mean, you got everyone who reads it all up in arms." I nod my head, indicating the cages around us. "Too bad you got." I gesture vaguely with my arms. "You know."

"Caught." He nods. Oh God, what is that supposed to mean?

The lights blink on and off -- three times. Lights-out.

I move my head upwards, indicating the bank of fluorescents. "Lights-out is in a minute. See you in the morning."

He nods in a stiff, formal way, and I roll over to the other side of my cage, which is a wall. Until he showed up, I'd been proud possessor of best cage -- next to the wall, with no neighbor.

So yes, I shouldn't be complaining. After all, I'm here because I want to be here. He got caught. Probably got hauled here by Flyboys, which isn't the most comfortable ride you can have, I confess. True, I also got dumped at the gates by Flyboys, but I knew exactly where I was going. He probably didn't.

Were he any other kid, I'd be up against the chicken-wire, talking to him and telling him that if he stays quiet and acts good, they'll move him up to the third ward, where you get a cubicle of your own. Believe me, after not being able to stand up most of the day except for exercise block, that cubicle is a blessing.

I realize, lying there in the dark, that he's one of the kids Jeb told about the mutants all being eradicated. Poor kid. He probably thinks he's up next.

I'm tempted to wriggle until I'm closer to his chicken-wire wall and tell him that he's perfectly safe, but I realize that that would spoil the plan. It still seems like a nice thing to do... and I stop the thought right there. Number one rule of missions like this: Whatever you do, don't actually be dumb enough to get infatuated with your target. Number one rule of my production group: No matter what, don't convince yourself you've fallen in love. It will only end in tears.

I sigh and roll over onto my back, staring up at the chicken-wire three feet above my head. It all seems so utterly ridiculous. Like I'm living someone else's fantasy, or like my life is a sitcom.


	3. Blue Heaven pt 2

I think about what the Director told me to do. Of all my production group, I'm the most androgynous male. So instead of someone else with better social skills, I'm the one who gets sieved out to stand in front of the Director and wait -- very patiently -- for her to tell him exactly what he's supposed to do.

Like everyone else in my production group, I was born with the potential for a photographic -- that is, extremely accurate -- memory. So I remember all of it.

Her blonde-gray hair swept forward over one ear like a feather, shadowing the left side of her face. I was standing in front of her desk, as I preferred to do instead of sitting in the chair provided. Mostly, I was worried that this was my "Regret to inform you" meeting: "I regret having to inform you of this, Omega, but you've passed your usefulness and so we've made the decision to put you to sleep." Not as if I'd put up a fight about it -- the word of God was nothing to fight about.

She was writing on a yellow legal pad in her careful, loopy handwriting. When she noticed I'd been ushered in to her office, she smiled, brushed her hair behind her ear, and stood. "Omega," she said. "It's nice to see you here."

I bowed slightly from the waist. "Thank you. What is your request?"

"Go ahead, sit down," she said, gesturing at the chair. "I actually have a mission for you."

Ever since my unsuccessful fight with Max, I'd been on unofficial retirement. That made my production group nervous -- usually, unofficial retirement was a nice word for "death after impressive service".

I looked at her, carefully structuring my gaze. Like everyone else in my production group, I'd been taught how to fake emotion skillfully. It came in handy.

She sighed and leaned towards me over the desk. "I have some papers here that I'm supposed to discuss with you, but I think they're terribly boring. Here's what they say." She cleared her throat.

"Well, as you know, you were designed with good control of your facial muscles." I nodded. Correct. "Your emotional sensitivity was also toned down." Also correct; I nodded again. My entire production group was supposed to be largely free of emotions.

"You know all this already, it seems." She was waiting for a response from me; I acknowledged her speech with another nod. "You were also designed without a sex drive." I nodded and added my designated embarrassment tic -- a twitch of the lips to the right.

"And due to an accident during your gestation, your testes have never functioned as they ought to. Your system doesn't have the right balance of testosterone with estrogen." She folded her hands. "We almost considered terminating you at that point, but it was then decided that this trait might benefit our purposes in the future."

"Is this why I have been called here?" Formal language. Intentionally. All nineteen of us were trained to control our actions.

She nodded. "Partially. Did you ever wonder why you were the only male without a female counterpart in your group?"

"I presumed I would be provided with one when it was seen fit, or that she had died in infancy." Good enough for an answer.

Her eyes widened, manufacturing her expression of listening. "The reason was that you were designed without a sex drive, as I've mentioned, and that you were designed to be independent of those needs. You were also used as a test subject; prior to your creation, there wasn't certainty as to the effect of a partner on the mental health of the subject it was partnered with." Et cetera. I'd heard this one a lot; how I'm more unstable than the other eighteen in my production group because I don't have a girl to counter me. How they work better on missions because there are two of them. How I'm the wildcard, because I might be the best in terms of advancement, but I can't be counted on because I work alone.

"So." When did she pick up that sheaf of papers? She tapped them into uniformity on the desk and handed them to me. "Here's the description of your assignment. You can read it later, at your discretion. I'll just give you the rundown." Compared to me and the other members of my production group, she talks a lot.

"You're going to stay here for approximately two or three months in training. You will then be sent to one of our associate laboratories, where you will be placed as a subject. Some time after your arrival, the subject commonly known as Fang will be delivered to the laboratory. Your job is to befriend him, gain his trust. We have an operative undercover there who will provide for your escape whenever you give the signal that you feel he trusts you. Presumably, Fang will then return to his Flock. You are then to remain with him, and assimilate into the Flock. Once you feel that they trust you, you're to contact us. Flyboys will be on their way in minutes."

I had a lot of questions. I asked what I felt was the most pertinent one first:

"Why was I informed of the abnormalities in my gestation if it has no bearing on the mission?"

"It does, Omega," she said, smiling. Anyone else would have thought she'd forgotten to mention it; I could read her expression. She thought I'd have figured it out. Mathematical talent does not an all-around genius make. "Due to Fang's distinct personality, he isn't open to offers of friendship from anyone but a female, preferably an attractive one. That's why we came to you, because due to the abnormalities, you can pass for a female better than anyone else in your group."

Were I a normal teenager in any regard, this would be the place where I would have asked her what exactly she expected me to do and how she expected me to pervert my morals to do it. But I am not a normal teenager. I and the rest of my production group were all trained to follow orders without question. I remained silent.

"Any other questions?"

"Yes," I said. "Who is the operative, and how am I to contact you at mission's end?"

"The operative is one of the employees; we placed her about five years ago in case we ever had to go through with this plan. She will contact you as soon as she can upon your arrival." She smiled; this one was genuine. Duchenne. "Also, you're going to contact us through this earring." She laid a ruby stud on the desk. "All you have to do is take it off; once the deadman's switch is tripped by the lack of your pulse, it radios in for help. Also comes in handy if you get injured."

She looked at me. "Anything else?"

"No, ma'am," I said, picking up the earring.

"Good." She pointed to the door. "Follow Reilly, if you will. He's going to do your medical workup."

I went to leave, and she said after me:

"He's also going to pierce your ear."

Oh, good. I'd been wondering how, exactly, I was supposed to wear the earring without pierced ears.


	4. Blue Heaven pt 3

Reilly was waiting outside the door to escort me. He'd recently been transferred from an American facility, for whatever reason. Tallish, brown hair, glasses, slightly bloodshot brown eyes, pale skin. I blinked, to reassure him that I wasn't just going to stare.

"You're Omega?" he said politely. He still had a trace of his California accent.

"Yes, I am," I replied. "Nineteenth of my production group."

"Ah, that Omega," he said as he walked me along the corridor. "I've heard about you."

"Really?"

"Yes," he said. "It's really a shame how Max fought dirty. That was the big argument before my transfer: who ought to have won. Odds were in her favor, I'm sorry to say: she came from our facility."

"Maximum Ride... came from your facility?" I wasn't just politely interested. The renegade was a marvel as far as her function went; my production group regularly argued over how she managed to stay on the run for so long, only getting captured every so often.

"Yep," said Reilly, opening the door to an exam room. "By the way," he added as I walked in, "I'm not going to do anything invasive. I'm just supposed to give you a rundown of your medical history."

I nodded and sat on the exam table, feeling mildly awkward. Reilly shut the door.

"Well, I think the Director's just told you about the situation involving your gestation," he said, sitting down in the doctor's chair.

"She did," I said.

"Did that solve any questions for you?"

"Yes, actually," I said carefully. "I had been wondering why my... physical puberty was so delayed compared to that of the other members of my group."

"It's also why your voice never cracked," he added.

"Why I'll never be able to grow a beard, or much hair anywhere else."

He nodded. "Right."

I swung my leg so that the heel of my boot met the table. How boring.

"Something interesting that your yearly exams have revealed is that, physically, you're part female."

I sat forward in surprise. "What?"

He glanced up at me, mildly. "There's a lot of technobabble I could spew at you, but suffice to say, you could technically have your own kids."

I widened my eyes, continuing my surprise reaction.

He nodded. "The going theory on you is that you had a female twin which was absorbed by your developing fetus. Except for her sex organs, she doesn't exist anymore."

"Why would that have occurred?" I asked, honestly curious. "I was informed that we were all created of single eggs."

"Technically speaking, you all were. Including you. Ten single eggs, twenty final products. The pairs in your group are twins."

"How?" I asked. "One in each is male, one female."

"Truth be told?" He shrugged. "I don't know. Probably a typo in the speech, and they're all fraternals. You were just the case where one twin absorbed the other."

"Why did that affect me as it has? I've heard of no other case with similar effects."

"You're more well-read than me, Omega." He glanced down at the papers; embarrassment, probably. "We really don't know. All that is known is that, at one point in your gestation there were two twins of different sexes, and at the next checkup, there was one embryo."

"So I am my own twin?"

He nodded. "Rightie-o."

I was relieved, but didn't dare let it show. The endless accusations of instability were untrue. I had a partner, just like all the rest of them. She was part of me, in the literal sense.

He glanced down at the papers again. "Says here I'm supposed to pierce your ear. Which ear do you want?" He went over to the counter and produced a large, pistol-esque machine.

"I -- ah, left," I said. I have never been truly comfortable with things close to my head. Especially not ones that look like they could go off and leave me without a head.

"Now hold still." He then proceeded to do something with the machine that I prefer not to describe. Suffice to say that, by the end of it, I had a newly pierced ear with a nice ruby stud.

All of this takes much less time to remember than it does to tell. By the time I finish thinking about the assignment, I'm starting to drift off into sleep, and the last thing I think is:

Remember the mission. Don't forget the mission.

This is of utmost importance to we nineteen. No matter what vagaries of mere emotion we may fall prey to, the mission falls above all else.

Yet while this is still foremost in my thoughts, I begin to feel shiverings of doubt, that this will be unlike any other mission, and that perhaps it will end unlike any other.

Before I can refute these thoughts, I am asleep.


	5. Blue Heaven pt 4

When I wake up in the morning -- fifteen seconds after the lights flash on, off, on, off, on -- it's breakfast time on the fourth ward. It's Sunday, which means we get let out as a group for breakfast, followed by nondenominational chapel time. One of the newer scientists moves along the line, unlocking our cages and ushering us out. Fang refuses to go. Poor kid probably thinks it's death time (in which case, I remind myself, he's not scared, but in hyper-aware mode) for the seventeen of us.

"Come on," I say, crouching in front of his cage and rattling the chickenwire front. "It's just breakfast."

He glares at me; dark brown eyes, distrustful expression. I put on a pleading, disbelieving tone. "Come on. All the food's going to be gone. Please?"

I can see that he's evaluating me. He doesn't know if he can trust me yet; _I_ wouldn't trust me yet.

"Okay," I say, and stand up. "Fine. Don't eat. I'm not your mother."

He stays in the cage, and I tag along behind the new scientist, who locks the ward door behind himself. The cage may be unlocked, but there isn't much even an Eraser can do to that empty room. There's a doorknob on the inside, sure, and one window with wires in the glass high up on one wall, but it's been proven impossible to escape from there.

I try to forget about him as I walk down the corridor to the cafeteria. The air smells like maple syrup; Pancake Sunday, then.

The cafeteria is like any other; an open room, with a tiled floor and nondescript walls. This is the cafeteria for wards three, four, and five, and so there is no bank of windows like the cafeteria for the upper two wards -- three windows with wire running through their glass, high up on the wall so they spill sunlight down onto the heads of the children at breakfast.

They really are children; no one here looks any older than fifteen or sixteen. And even then, appearances are deceiving. Some of them are Erasers, deceptively ageless, always looking like healthy young people in their twenties. Some of them are avian hybrids like the Flock, looking, on average, five to seven years older than they actually are.

Like Maximum, I have a certain kind of notoriety. But that's only back "home" in Germany. Here, I'm just an anonymous experiment like everyone else, and one of about fifty females in the cafeteria right now. Well, not _technically_ female -- from what I remember, I do indeed have one X and one Y chromosome -- but to all appearances, just as girly as any other female in here.

I'm not nervous; I got over that when I was still in training back home. I know that no one is going to be paying close enough attention to me to figure out that I'm not all woman. The long hair and the feminine features are enough.

After Reilly pierced my ear, one of my production group showed up to take me back to our barracks. He looked visibly nervous without his partner by his side.

"Morning, Omega," he said, nodding to me before he began his walk down the hall.

"Morning," I answered.

"So?" he asked. Normally, we could have held the entire conversation without saying a word, but since we were in the halls (and thus under camera supervision), we preferred to speak aloud. It made the security guards feel more secure.

"New mission," I said, and glanced down at the papers I was holding. I scanned through the cover page, which carried the mission's code name (which I won't repeat here for reasons of secrecy), my own designation (a long string of letters and numbers which I find too boring and too personal to reproduce here), a brief description of the mission, and an estimated duration.

None of this was new to me; usually we didn't receive write-ups of what we were expected to do prior to the mission, but I expected it was because this would be a solo mission for me alone. Normally, we were sent out in groups of four, or the whole nineteen as one group. You couldn't fit that many people into the Director's office, so one of the scientists would be sent down from her office to give us the rundown.

"How long will you be out?" he asked as a courtesy. As I said, in the barracks, the dynamics of a conversation were much different. He would have just looked over my shoulder. But we understood that normal humans didn't do that, and we were supposed to maintain a façade of normalcy in public.

"They expect I'll be out there for anywhere from one to two years, and I'll be in training for one year prior to the mission."

He glanced at me. "Three years, hmm? Who are they assigning in your place?"

As you've probably guessed, I was the honorary leader of my production group, even though I was youngest. Unlike a human social group, where the oldest has the most experience (and is thus most qualified to lead), in our production group the youngest (being the one the scientists had perfected the best) was most qualified to lead. And I was the youngest.

I riffled through the pages, spotting nothing pertinent to his question. "Mara, I suppose; she's worked with us before." Even though Mara was older than anyone in my production group, she had served in a temporary leading position for a short time. And of all the other experiments there, she was, for whatever reason, practically the only one who wasn't repulsed by us. She regarded us as strange because of the way we didn't express emotion as freely as the others, but she acknowledged our unique value. We'd make great diplomats, she'd once said to me.

When we came in to the barracks, everyone else was sitting on their bunks, one ear tuned to the Director's weekly spiel. They turned to look at me. I nodded a brief hello, and they turned back to whatever they were doing. I wasn't particularly interested.

I went to my bunk and sat down on it, criss-cross-applesauce. And I began to read through the materials the Director had given me; terribly boring and couched in overly formal language, as always. I got the gist of it:

One year in training, for God knew what. Then shipped off to God knew where, where I would be alone for up to three months until Fang was captured. Then approximately six months in the facility, trying to gain Fang's trust. This would be followed by anywhere from three months to eighteen months, traveling with the Flock and gaining _their_ trust. And then I was to phone home, and the Flock would be back in captivity.

I set the papers aside. Hadn't they considered Stockholm syndrome? That wouldn't be quite the word, but there was still the possibility that instead of remaining cold and detached throughout the mission, I would attach to the Flock and not want to let them be captured.

Then again, there was the fact that I had been designed to lack emotions, and as a fail-safe, trained my entire life to suppress them. And that, unlike the rest of my production group, who had been comparatively "untouched", I had been designed to lack a sex drive. So two possible temptations had been eliminated there. I had nothing to worry about.

I had begun to relax when Mara entered the room, holding a slip of paper in her hand. "'Mega?" she asked.

I rose and nodded. With any visitor but her, I would have asked what she needed, but Mara knew us very well.

"Get your stuff," she said. "Bus is waiting."

I nodded again, knelt, and took my camouflage suit and coat from the storage area. These were the only things I needed to take with me. Well... I took the sheaf of instructions as well.

She nodded as I passed her on my way out the door. "Good luck, fella," she whispered, obviously meaning it for my ears only.

Outside the door was Reilly.

"You again," he said.

"You," I said.

He smiled. "You're technically not supposed to know where I'm taking you, so just forget about it, all right?" And I did my best.

I arrived at my new barracks with absolutely no idea what was going on. It didn't seem like any other barracks I'd ever been in.

"Welcome to your new home," said Reilly. "You will be taken care of from now on."

Somehow, that sounded extremely ominous to me. I had to spend an entire year there?


	6. Blue Heaven pt 5

I realize that this sounds like a bit much to remember while I stand in the food line. This is longer in the telling than it is in the remembering.

I shuffle through the food line with everyone else. Mostly it's the other fourth-warders, but some of them are third-warders looking for second helpings. Three of them are obviously from the fifth ward -- sitting in wheelchairs, accompanied by their handlers, in restraints. And these are the well-behaved fifth-warders.

There were obvious distinctions between the wards. We all looked essentially the same; boring grey uniform, between three and seven feet tall. Yet to the observant eye, it's immediately obvious who belongs to which ward. The uniforms worn by the third-warders sport a silver stripe at the collar; ours in the fourth ward sport a dull brown stripe. Fifth-warders wear black collars, and above them a thin metal shock-collar in flexible plastic guarding with a little metal tag attached denoting their designation and giving a warning on the back side about the shock-collar's voltage and that the wearer is to be supervised at all times, et cetera.

First and second ward have breakfast later than we do; they go to chapel immediately after rising, instead of breakfast. They are immediately distinguishable from anyone on the lower wards: the second-warders have a yellow stripe, and the first-warders plain collars. And they have permission to go anywhere they want during their allotted free hours.

You get stepped down a ward for excessive bad behavior, usually. Fourth ward is where everyone goes when they arrive, because you are immediately assumed violent, even if you aren't. From then on, you can move up through the wards by being "good"; the only place to go other than that is down, to fifth ward. That's reserved for the unrepentantly ill-behaved ones, but their stays last weeks at the most. Fifth ward really means that you've gone out of your mind for whatever reason. There is really no going up from fifth ward.

The third-warders are totally open about staring at me as I get my food. Not only am I a fourth-warder, but I'm a fairly pretty girl, which isn't too common here. It's like what I'd imagine any high school cafeteria to be like: when the pretty girl walks in, everyone turns to look.

I'm trying not to be nervous; one could say that I passed charm school with flying colors. Or at least, 'how to be feminine' school. And since Fang isn't here, I really haven't got that much to worry about.

That's how I rationalize it, anyway. I've never had bad performance anxiety before, but this is a very reasonable time to come down with my first good case of it. Everyone's eyes are on me; if I make a slip or misstep, they'll probably figure out that I'm not actually a girl. And that means I'll probably fail the mission. Which would mean the end of my useful life. Which means that I get put to sleep.

Understandably, I'm a bit nervous. I do a pretty good job of hiding it, though. I've been trained my entire life to hide my already reduced emotions from everyone. I even fooled that little telepath girl...

I wince; something hot has spilled down the side of my hand as I walk to one of the tables designated for fourth-warders. I glance down; my hands are shaking. I will it to stop and it obliges. I set my tray down on the table and sit.

That was not one of the best days of my life. Broken nose, home invaded by strange kids. But at least there's that upside: we now know that my production group as a whole is good enough at hiding their emotions to fool a telepath. It's rather amazing. The little girl was convinced I had been trained to kill Maximum for my entire life. The product of sixty years' research, trained for one task? No. The Director wanted to make an example of Maximum, and so she used me. In the records, I am indeed recorded as the victor of that contest.

My production group was trained to conceal emotions and be able to easily read them off others. We'd make pretty fair spies, maybe even diplomats with some training and time to age.

I eat without thought; four pancakes with syrup, two poached eggs, one glass water, two slices toast. I don't really know how they manage it, I consider: huge volumes of food. Perhaps they present themselves as an educational institute to their food providers.

I remember when I arrived here: waking up in my cage in the fourth ward, asking my neighbor what they called this place.

"Blue Heaven," he said. "Algul Siento."

Of course, I now understand what he was referring to. But then, it seemed like some mystical indication. An omen that I couldn't read.


	7. Blue Heaven pt 6

After breakfast, it's time for chapel. The new scientist sends one of the third-warders down with the keys to fetch Fang. Whether or not you eat breakfast, chapel is mandatory. "Education" or something. It's more like a social hour for most of the kids.

Before I'd left home, I'd read through the published accounts of Maximum's life. Like any pulp, they were hideously inaccurate in parts, but I got a feel for her and, most importantly, for Fang, pretty quickly. It was strange to see myself written about in print; things I had done, told about.

So I knew from these pulps that most of the unfit experiments back home were told they were slated for termination, and most of them were correct. Here, at Blue Heaven -- or Algul, as my former neighbor had referred to it -- the knowledge is that very few new mutants are being created, and the ones who can't pass for normal are the only ones who are terminated. Some of the kids had been born here, but the large majority of the kids at Blue Heaven are transfers from other facilities. Blue Heaven is, first and foremost, a rehabilitation center -- or, more accurately, a habilitation center, since few of us had actually escaped before our transfer here. Once you move up to the second ward, they start teaching you how to act in the world outside.

I don't plan to stay here that long. Fang is a troublemaker (notoriously so), and I have to stay near him to make this even work. Even if that means sleeping in a chickenwire cage for the remainder of my stay.

Supposedly, I'm a troublemaker, too. Ottavia, or Miranda. Depends on who you ask. I prefer Miranda, personally, since I don't know who Ottavia was, and her name is too close to my real name. Miranda sounds more like me. Whoever I am now.

I'm only a local celebrity, though; strictly small-time. Not like Maximum; everyone knows her name. I wonder, sometimes, what it must be like to be her. I can't really imagine it too well; before now, I'd lived at home in Germany my entire life, never very far from the rest of my production group, from other people who knew exactly what it was like. Better: other people who knew my voice, who knew me more intimately than lovers do each other. We had been raised together...

I cut the thought off, surgically. This is not the time. I repeat that to myself three times. Not the time right now. I need to be alert.

We're all standing in the corridor in front of the door to the chapel, waiting for Fang to arrive. Security reasons; the new scientist can't leave us alone with the chaplain (or whatever he's called). The chaplain hasn't got the necessary training to deal with fourth-warders. He was moved down last week, after the old chaplain was transferred.

I smile at the new scientist, as sweetly as I can. I can't remember his name.

Fang arrives, sullenly. The third-warder disappears down the corridor to find the rest of his ward. Fang stands alone at the back of the group.

I concentrate on trying to "read" his emotions. Most people are easier to read. Fang's a difficult case. Even with the information I got from the pulps, he's a tough nut to crack.

I start with the most obvious cues: facial expressions. Like everyone else, he got a haircut when he showed up. Now he wears a reasonable short cut, just like the rest of the boys. (Me? Shoulder length hair.) Once you move up to third ward, they start letting you style your hair the way you want. By first ward, they let you use dyes.

Here, there's no more long hair to obscure his face. I watch keenly through the corners of my eyes, very careful not to seem like I'm staring. I focus boredly on the wall just beyond his face, capturing it meanwhile like a photograph. He has the best poker face I've ever seen on someone not out of my production group; shivers of muscle at the corners of his lips are the only thing that betray him. He wants to put on a disdainful sneer, but he daren't; he wants to bare his teeth in a snarl, but he daren't.

Since I find so little in his face, I turn to his eyes; here's where our training really shows. Most people can read simple expressions in the eyes; directions with flicks of the gaze, eyes rolled, winks. My production group was trained in how to read eyes. Small children, staring deep into each other's eyes. It would have been an eerie sight for any visitor from outside; but I wasn't famous then.

His eyes don't betray anything, either. Dark brown eyes of his color are the ones I find hardest to read. Only the sharpest eyes can pick out the changes of pupil size that involuntarily bare emotion to the world in those eyes. The long eyelashes sweep closed; blink. He has the eyesight of a raptor.

The doors to the chapel swing open; time to go in. We shuffle in as a group. I close the file on Fang with a mental snap, and switch on the program that runs a sweet, respectful face with attentive eyes. Under it, I plan to examine the memories I've stored of him.


	8. Blue Heaven pt 7

The chaplain smiles, as beatifically as he can muster, down at us from his position up at the front of the chapel. Blue Heaven's a comparatively small facility: the chapel holds about a hundred people, if all of them stand and you move the pews out. With the pews in and all the people sitting, you fit about seventy-five. All the wards and all the staff in here, easily. You could hide out from a bomb or other attack in here. There are no windows.

I relax in my seat. Although this is prescribed as quiet time for communal with whatever God we call kin, I reserve it for quiet thought. I think about home, about the eighteen other souls who know me the best. They won't see me for another year or two yet. I'm thankful to be what I am (who I am, as well), because that means that their faces will never fade from my memory. I will always remember the many-times-broken noses and their particular kinks, the shape of faces, the color of eyes. Someone -- Mara, I think -- once said that we have the eyes and memories of artists. We remember _everything_, untainted by emotion. Because we've moved beyond it, for the most part. It's still a part of us -- just like you can't remove the basic cellular need to eliminate waste, unpleasant as it may be -- but we've learned to understand it and manipulate it. We do not belong to our emotions. Our emotions belong to us.

In the third volume of the pulp series, Batchelder said that none of the new hybrids had souls. I wonder what he meant, crossing my ankles neatly. What is a soul? If it's open, incontinent expression of emotion, then certainly I and my production group are as soulless as devils. We're happy this way. If it's religion, some of us have it and some of us don't.

Annie once said she didn't believe new babies were yet ensouled. Have we spent long enough a term on Earth to be ensouled? The oldest pair of my production group is older even than Maximum, who thinks herself the oldest successful hybrid. Untrue; witness ourselves, witness the Director. Twenty successful hybrids. All produced before Maximum.

We were all created before she was; most of us were frozen embryos for a while, hatched out at three-months intervals or so. We look eerily uniform in age, though two years separate me from the oldest pair. This is no vagary of our genetics; it's luck, maybe. Perhaps it was even because I (and my would-be twin) were frozen so long that we became the oddity, the one-in-ten example, of my production group.

They really are _my_ production group. I belong to that group; our designations are identical up until the last two digits. We act similarly, though not identically; we're only human at our hearts, after all. And they are mine because, even when I was a wee little boy, the older children saw something in me. And they wanted me to lead them. God only knows why; I wasn't much of a leader then. I've heard I was a quiet little boy. But I was never really a child; those three years of childhood (or so they call years of Nanny foreshadowing our future training) were ephemeral, and remain even for us mostly memoryless.

We were hatched at intervals because they hadn't enough volunteers -- they hadn't quite got the artificial womb when we were born. Home was a huge facility, yes -- the hugest -- but they could never get quite enough volunteers. (And volunteering paid hugely well, whether you donated blood or offered another service to them. It was a good business. The volunteers just had to learn not to act like their society had taught them to. The woman who gave birth to me still lives somewhere in Germany, I suppose. There is no reason to care about her. She did not contribute genetic material. She does not provide a map to my possible future.) So they rotated them. I imagine that it must have paid very well, even by the standards of the trials they ran.


	9. Blue Heaven pt 8

Once chapel ends, we go back down to fourth ward. Two of the kids are scheduled for their monthly checkups, and the new scientist sends them away with the assistant who comes to fetch them. He introduces himself as Nick; this pretty much indicates that he won't be here long. So does the gold necklace chain he wears. There are technically no rules against staff wearing jewelry (except for those who work in the fifth ward), but it is not an accepted thing, for safety reasons.

I can read his nametag from here; it says "DR. NICHOLAS MCALISTER." Definitely new; once staff have been employed for a year, they receive a nametag reading only their last name. The "Doctor" is assumed.

He looks far too young; brown hair too neatly cut, blue eyes, the remains of teenage acne. He's dressed too neatly, too; most of the staff wear jeans because of the tough denim fabric, and cotton workshirts because of the way they wick sweat away from the body. He wears neat dress pants and a white collared shirt. His shoes are neatly polished. I wonder where he got transferred from, if he still dresses this neatly. I suspect it was the New York facility; Easterners always dress more carefully, more neatly. Westerners haven't yet figured out that they belong to the United States of America already, that they're not a territory anymore and the cowboys have all grown old and died.

Of course, home was in Germany, technically, but it was really a country of its own. Only a few of the staff there were actually from Europe; most were British or from the United States. A scant few were Japanese.

"I'm supposed to introduce myself to you," says the new scientist. "My name is Doctor Nicholas McAlister, but I'd like you to just call me Nick."

The seventeen of us look at each other uneasily. Fang looks at the floor, trying to be sullen. He's not fooling me. He hates this place. It's the smell of alcohol, and the white coat that Doctor Nicholas McAlister wears, and the cages. Yes, it's definitely the cages.

Just looking at him, it has to be the cages. He hates cages. Any bird would; the poor things can't stand to be caged and kept out of the sky. I'm supposed to be one, too; it explains my very unfeminine lack of breasts. None of the birdkids really developed breasts. They don't need them, apparently, or there was some kind of screwup in their design. I know a lot about screwups in design.


	10. Blue Heaven pt 9

It's siesta; the midday period of rest. Lunch wasn't too long ago. I can't remember what it was, and it doesn't matter terribly much.

I'm curled up on my side, thinking about a ship that sunk more than ninety years ago. She was the RMS Titanic, and she left from Southampton on what I imagine to have been a sunny April morning. She sank in the middle of the night. Of course you've heard of her.

I'm thinking about Collapsibles A and B. They were, as their name indicates, collapsible lifeboats, and they were stored above the officer's quarters if memory serves. As the ship went down, efforts were made to flip them right-side up... but one of them never made it, and floated overturned until its occupants were rescued. The other swamped with more than forty occupants.

There's not much of a reason for me to be thinking about a ship that sank years before my production group was even a glimmer in the eye of a German scientist. We all learned about it when we were children; it's one of the ephemera that rise most clearly to memory from my brief education, so often interrupted by my being called off to missions.

I realize that I didn't exactly have a normal childhood; years of schooling are normal, but not when they're interspersed with pseudo-military training. And when your schooling focuses on the missions you're sent on.

We were developed mostly as infiltrators. We're stronger, _better_ than those we're meant to fool. But you can't pretend to be a teenager unless you know how to be one. So our schooling consisted a lot of learning how to be whatever we were pretending to be. I don't know how the lady Titanic fits into that. Somehow she does.

This is the longest mission I've ever been sent on; three years maximum length. Of course, one year was just training. But then there are two years set aside for me to do what I was born to do. And no matter what the clever little girl said, I wasn't born to kill Max. That duty falls to someone else. My duty is... well, my duty is to play Judas. I get them to trust me. Then I betray them.

Three years of my life. And I'm spending them as a female.

I don't know why this is even disturbing. In my adult career, I'll serve on longer missions, perhaps even posing as a woman then -- more likely, a teenage girl. This is not the worst deception I'll ever engage in.

It's still not the most appealing thought I've ever had. My name now is Miranda. Most of my physical characteristics remain the same, excluding the length of my hair, long enough now to be a bit of a bother. My personality is a different one -- more feminine, adoring of Fang. And I will live as Miranda for perhaps two more years. Just over seven hundred days, twenty-one hundred meals. Didn't Maximum write that I'm a mathematical prodigy? It's lies (mostly). I worked out the answer beforehand. It came out handy that I lived in the same facility as the Director, and that she told me the problem in advance. Shifting the odds in her favor, yes.

That makes me think about home. Not my pleasant childhood memories. The worst memories I have of it.

Oh, I'm not going to tell you any horror stories involving needles. I'm going to tell you a story about any homeowner's ultimate nightmare: the invasion of hostile pests.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Omega, because he was the last of his production group. Were this a _real_ fairy tale, he would be the runt of the "family", and the one who got made fun of the most. But this isn't, and he wasn't, because he was separated from his next-older siblings by just two months. All of the kids were two months apart, in fact.

Now, this boy had been raised a Good Boy, and he always did what his mother said for him to do, because that was what Good Boys did. And once upon a time a girl came to the castle where the Good Boy lived, and his mother decided to prove that the Good Boy was better than this girl. This was all well and good, being that it was in the pursuit of science.

But the girl had played an evil trick on the boy and his mother. She called on her brother to witch up an army of other children to attack the castle. And so the children came to the castle...

The boy, meanwhile, did as his mother told him. He was, after all, a Good Boy.

Then the children came, and everything he thought he knew was turned upside-down. He ran for a place he thought was safe, but it wasn't safe any more. So he ran and he ran and he kept running until finally it was night and he lay down to rest. And in the morning some of his mother's friends found him and took him back to his house, but he was never the same again.

You could say it made me bitter or misanthropic, but those might be consequences of my style. I don't communicate very well; my body language is a tad suppressed in public, and I never learned to write expressively other than mission reports.

I don't know what's going to come up in the fourth pulp book about Maximum, but I hope I'm not cast as horribly bitter. Because anyone normal would be bitter after an encounter of that sort with her: She mocks you and calls in a force of _children_ who attempt to destroy your home. It would be a terrible cut to self-esteem, I imagine.

But the Collapsibles. Like I said. They weren't solid-sided lifeboats, and the people in them were subject to some terrifying things on that April morning. I imagine there's a clever metaphor for my life somewhere in there.


	11. On the Run pt 1

Fang is an idiot.

If you could distill the wild images flying through my brain right now into one particular thought, it would be that thought. Because only idiots do things this spectacularly stupid.

On Sundays, we don't have exercise block. So I imagine he plotted all through his time in the cage. Or perhaps it was a spur of the moment decision.

Either way, while we're getting let out of our cages for breakfast, Fang jumps Dr. McAlister. He can't weigh more than a hundred and ten pounds soaking wet in combat boots, yet the man goes right to the floor. He definitely got transferred down from first ward, I think disjointedly, and then, before Fang can throw the first punch, I grab Fang by the shoulders and drag him off Dr. McAlister. He fights wildly against my grip, and I try to hold on despite it. I may weigh more than him, but I'm masquerading as a female. Then again, I'm supposed to be an avian hybrid female...

Like bad magic, one of the guards (I suppose they're Erasers) appears at the door as Dr. McAlister gets to his feet, visibly shaken. He mouths two unmistakable words, even if you're as bad at lip reading as I imagine Fang to be:

"Fifth ward."

My instincts kick into gear. If Fang gets transferred, there's no hope for the mission. Ergo, don't get transferred. And weren't we supposed to escape anyway?

"Come on," I say, yanking Fang towards the door at the back of the room -- it leads to a storage closet with a trapdoor to the attic. Quite possibly the worst plan I've ever implemented, but come hell or high water, it's _got_ to work, because otherwise we're so screwed they'll need a drillbit to get us out of this.

Supply closet. Climb the shelf, yank the trapdoor handle, vault into the ceiling. Fang's following me, thank God; he's got a nose for escape. Skylight.

"Now what?"

"Up." I say, and spread my wings wide. If he ever considered I was Omega (although he never met me when I still went by that name), this is the end. Because the Omega Max told him about wasn't an avian hybrid. Secret: The Director said _obsolete_ avian hybrid. It didn't mean I wasn't one.

I look at the skylight briefly. Thin glass. No wires. I won't be able to get any speed up. And the guards are knocking boots on the floor. This is not good.

So I jump, beat my wings frantically, and nothing happens. "Hold me," I say. Jump, beat my wings, punch wildly at the glass.

Then Fang jumps, reaches up over my head, taps the glass, and it shatters. God damn it. The skylight is still rimmed with dangerous shards of glass, but this will have to do.

I jump again, the third time, beat my wings, and now the chances are a little better; I make it through the skylight, Fang right behind me. It's a miracle we make it without any major cuts. I suspect he's got a few minor scratches, but then again, so have I.

I'm not exactly thinking too clearly, other than "Oh shit" very clearly and trying to gain as much altitude as I can as fast as I can. Fang is soaring ahead of me. God damn him. I catch some kind of weird luck and zip up so I'm eye-level with his shoes. Nice sneakers, I want to say, and that's when something hot and painful zips across my left thigh, and it comes out as a strangled cry of surprise and pain. Keep flying. Stay airborn. As long as you don't go unconscious, you won't say anything revealing. Stay ahead of the bullets.

And then, suddenly. No more shooting. We're out. We've escaped. In the parlance of Blue Heaven, we're "free birds".

"Fang," I say clearly. "You're an idiot. But you're a _brave_ idiot."

He smiles. I really can't be bothered to tell if it's genuine or not, being that I'm out of breath and probably bleeding through the only pair of pants I have. "Thanks."

"Welcome." The pants are a bit long at the cuffs; I can probably rip makeshift bandages out of the cuffs. It's more likely that we hit up a dumpster or... whatever they do for clothes. I suspect that an intimate acquaintance with needle and thread is in my future.

"So what's your name again?" he asks.

"Miranda," I answer, making brief eye contact with a smile. "No last name, yeah."

I'm getting the strong vibe that he doesn't trust me at all. Like I said, I wouldn't trust me as far as I could throw me, and _especially_ not if I knew what I was really up to. Luckily, Fang doesn't know what I'm up to, and he believes he's talking with a pretty girl who's happened to help him escape.

"You have a... flock?" Very careful with the question.

"Nope." Casual. Act casual. "I've been alone just about forever." Oh God, I hope that sounds believable. Sure, creativity is one of my job requirements -- it was _designed into me_ -- but I never expected I'd be using it to butter up a man who has his own blog and is, reputedly, not only in cahoots with, but _dating_, the ridiculously famous Maximum Ride. Stage fright, I suspect one would call it.

"Too bad." How does he do the casual thing? Well, he's not lying, but why is his casual tone better than mine when I've been trained in it all my life? "You have somewhere to go?"

"Away from there." Girlish, but casual. Thank God I spent my childhood with nine girls in close proximity to me. Too bad they couldn't have been more normal girls, though. They were certainly still feminine.

"So what do they call that place?" Faking polite interest. This is an intensely bad sign.

"Well, heaven it en't." I barely manage to keep "ain't" out of that horrible sentence. Why can't I just say "The kid next to me in third ward said it was called Blue Heaven, but heaven it isn't"? Well, that's a bit unwieldy, come to think of it, but why can't I get a simple sentence past my lips?

Stage fright, honey. Even the Almighty Omega is prey to it, although he did spend his childhood learning how to combat it and all other forms of emotion. Please don't mention his poor tracking of fast-moving objects; he prefers not to be compared to fictional dinosaurs, even _if_ it was the most spectacular acting job he ever gave. Perhaps he should go into acting... Shakespeare has always appealed to him. Well, maybe it wasn't all acting, but how would you like it if I continuously set on you about a minor flaw?


	12. On the Run pt 2

When we _do_ meet the Flock, they're nowhere near as frightening as I'd imagined them to be... if frightening is a word one can apply to me.

Nudge and Angel I am passingly familiar with; the talkative one and the little girl. Iggy is unfamiliar; tall, pale, relatively quiet. I get the feeling he doesn't like strangers. Gazzy is an eight-year-old boy; I heard from Reilly what he said to Ter Borcht. He may _look_ older than he is, but after all, he's just a little boy.

They're more or less like some of the members of my own production group; any social group has a talkative one, a quiet one, the one who acts like a little girl, and the immature one.

Maximum? To borrow a phrase, she puts the fear of God in me.

She's not really physically impressive, I suppose: she stands a good four inches or so taller than I, I'd estimate, and I suspect that she weighs much less than me -- light, honeycomb-structured bones contribute to that. Brownish-blonde hair, with faded pink streaks. Brown eyes, almost cold. Pale skin. Dirty clothes. Unbrushed teeth, generally unwashed.

She doesn't trust me right away; I brush a lock of hair behind my ear with one hand, looking to the side innocuously.

"This is Miranda," says Fang.

Maximum looks at me blandly.

"Hi," I say. I'm trying not to stare. Who wouldn't? She may not be physically striking, but she _is_ Maximum Ride. _The_ Maximum Ride. Even my production group (who, as a whole, prefer to do as they're told) agree that she is... remarkable.

Yet she doesn't _look_ like the Maximum out of all the stories. She looks more fragile somehow; I remind myself that even though I'm underweight for my age and production group, Maximum weighs just over ninety-eight pounds -- thirty-five less than I do. And she's just a hair taller than me; not more than a few inches, surely. I could take her in a fight -- I know, because I've done it before (even though it was practically rigged) -- but I'm not sure which of us would come out the victor. She looks very... _feminine_, is the word.

But even then, I can see where all the stories come from. Because she is feminine, yes, but she looks different. I've been on missions away from my production group before, and she looks absolutely nothing like the other girls her age I've known. She looks like my production group does. Poised, perhaps. Strong.

I could learn to admire her.

I'm not sure what to do, whether I should introduce myself or whether it's too early, or what, but thankfully, this is when my leg decides to give out. I haven't been paying attention to it, and I suppose it's been bleeding all the while.

"Oh no," I say, because I have about two seconds before my leg decides to entirely cop out on me. Then I'm crumpled in an untidy, painful heap in the underbrush, undoing my belt so I can try and get a tourniquet together.

"Are you all right?" Max asks. A curious expression spreads across her face: concern. I've seen _that_ one before, when I didn't perform to expectations: what's wrong with the subject? Is it ill, or do we need to go back to trials on this production group?

"Oh, yeah," I say, and struggle to my feet; it's a balancing act, trying to keep the weight off my wounded leg as much as I can without falling on my ass. Eventually I figure it out. "I got clipped when we escaped. I'll be fine."

"You sure?" Max eyes me, and she's not suspicious, really. I guess she's starting to let her guard down now; the Erasers are mainly gone (back to alpha testing), and you can hear the Flyboys coming a mile away. As far as she cares, I'm a teenage girl who happened to tag along with Fang when he escaped. It's a pity; this is going to be very simple, then. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Or capturing birds with clipped wings.

"Yep." I turn to retreat into the trees; we're standing in a small clearing in a pine forest. "I'll just go bandage it and leave you guys alone."

I walk off into the pines, weaving until, when I look back, they're mainly hidden by a mesh of low-growing branches. Good. I sit down, propping my back against a pine tree. I'll have bad cramps in a while (I haven't flown in a long time), but right now I need to take care of this. I cannot afford -- absolutely cannot afford -- to call off the mission early because of what's really a minor wound.

Well, I don't know how minor it is yet. Better check.

I peel off my jeans, which is awkward since I'm sitting down, and examine my leg. It looks basically okay; the graze doesn't seem to be near any major arteries or veins, and it really is a graze, which means I don't have to try and extract a bullet -- which would be a real bitch, because I'm not allowed to even access alcohol while on a mission. Tylenol is about as strong as I can go. Something about my programming, I think. They're worried about it loosening my tongue.

I peer at it closely; it's about three inches up from my knee, running slightly toward the joint, oozing bright red blood. Not bad.

I take off my extra shirt and start ripping it up before I remember the knife I've got hidden in my shoe. Then I just cut the shirt into strips. This wound is small enough that it should close on its own in a few days to a week. I'm pretty much good.

I take a few of the strips and wipe as much of the blood as I can get off of my leg. Better. Now I start bandaging the wound, wrapping the strips all the way around my leg and tying them in careful small knots.

I finish bandaging and put my jeans back on. They're loose anyway, and they fit comfortably over the bandages. Good. I doubt I'll be able to get a new pair for a while. There's not even blood on the jeans.

I stand up and test my leg. It works. I can put weight on it. I walk a few steps, beat my wings and hover. Yeah. I'll be fine. I just have to remember not to land on it too hard, or I'll go down like a house of cards.

Just as my feet touch the dirt -- right foot first now -- I hear a shuffling of other feet in the shed pine needles on the forest floor. "Who's there?" I ask, putting a bit of wary fear into my voice and turning around.

My eyes catch a fleeting white presence, and I track it. Whatever it is, it's heading for the Flock.

I focus. Because it's familiar.

Then I remember. It's Angel. It has to be.

I walk briskly back to where I left the flock.

Max is talking quietly with Fang; I nod and raise my hand, pausing about eight feet from them. Max glances up and says, "Hey, Miranda."

From hi to hey in fifteen minutes. Not bad. I might be able to stay.

Angel tiptoes up to Max and taps her on the shoulder. Max turns to her and asks, "What is it, honey?"

"I have something to tell you," Angel says, obviously for Max's ears only. "About Miranda."

Oh shit. I back off about a foot, say briskly to Fang:

"Where are you guys headed?"

He looks sideways at me, almost shyly. "Nowhere in particular." He sounds guarded.

"Well, I was headed maybe to Mesa Verde in southern Colorado. I thought maybe if you guys were headed that way we could hang together?" I try to make my voice sweet and innocent.

"Well, actually," he says, stepping closer to me and dropping his voice, "we're headed to Arizona. I'm not supposed to tell anyone."

Oh, _come on_. This is, like, the kindergarten of emotion: I'm not supposed to tell you. Sharing secrets. Easy.

I smile. "Oh, okay." I put my index finger to my lips. "I won't tell."

"Good."

Then Max breaks in:

"Hey, Fang. Talking with Miranda?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Where's she headed?"

"Southern Colorado," he says.

Max widens her eyes; a blind man could see that it's mostly fake. "That's just down our way. Wanna tag along?" She stretches out a hand to me; I shake it, feeling like a trained dog. "Welcome aboard."


	13. On the Run pt 3

We're about a day out from the pines (and consequently, about a day and a half from Algul Siento) when Iggy claims that he hears something.

Of all the Flock members, he's the one who seems most okay with me being around. Probably because he knows I'm a girl and he has bombs; if I suddenly go Eraser or traitor on them while he's around, I'm dead in ten seconds or less.

He catches up with me easily -- well, really, he slows down, as I'm a slow flier -- and whaps me on the wingtip with his wing. "Do you hear that?"

I listen. Nothing. "Nope."

Still nothing. He shrugs. "Okay."

Then I start to hear it, very faintly. "Oh shit. Tell Max?"

"Okay." He shrugs again and soars up and forward to meet Max, who's cruising along faster than I can fly. He says something to her, and then --

Well, for a moment I'm surprised. Flyboys are supposed to be fast. I can see them coming, slowly. Very slowly. Too slowly. Wait.

I want to drop right now, even though we're over houses. Better to hide than fight. My production group were always treated like musicians: the cardinal rule is not to hurt us or damage us. We're too valuable. It's programmed into the Flyboys not to harm us, and suddenly it occurs to me that that might not have been the best idea on the part of the programmers. Didn't it ever occur to them that we might be on a mission and have a runin with them? That them not attacking us alone would be extremely revealing?

I don't get to continue that train of thought because, all around me, the Flyboys are arriving.

I drop altitude, instinctively, before catching myself and starting back up. Because of this, I'm the only one unengaged when the gunfire breaks out.

At first I'm startled, and break training for the first time since I was very small with a blurted, very unfeminine-voiced, "Holy _shite_!"

I shoot upwards, probably more out of fright than anything else -- and partly because it's my training. If I _do_ get in a fight, I'm supposed to get above the action.

But now I'm being shot at, and I whirl, kicking one of the nearby Flyboys -- one of a few carrying guns -- at the base of the spine, making it drop out of the air instantly. Again -- remember not to give in and drop for cover, aim for the bottom of the spine. I aim and do it again -- this time I take out one that's harassing Angel. She grins at me momentarily, and then a Flyboy hits me right in the middle of the back.

My breath makes a whooshing noise in my ears, which doesn't make sense, and I turn around and get it in a bear hug. This is one of the ones without a gun, so I at least have a chance. It's trying to immobilize me. I can't let that happen.

I get my legs up so I'm grasping its torso with arms and legs, and ram my heel into the base of its spine. Doesn't work. Again -- works, finally. It starts to drop away, and I wriggle out of it as speedily as I can, already moving to take out one that's shooting at Max.

I knock the gun from its hand with a sweep of the wing, and follow up with a kick to the base of the spine. Very neat. I can see this getting written up as exemplary in the report.

It's like some sort of strange movie scene. Because I'm turning, leg extended for balance, and something sharp clips across the same place where I was clipped when we escaped from Algul Siento not a day ago, and it hurts. I kick another Flyboy and whirl to try and get a glimpse of whatever got me, but there's nothing there.

And then, suddenly, the flight is over.

Max is bleeding from a scratch to the forehead, and she grins and says:

"Break time?"

"Yes, please!" says Nudge, and I smile.

We keep going until we hit another patch of forest, and that's where we land. I'm winded and tired, but I feel exhilarated. Endorphins, that's all. It still feels fantastic.

The Flock seems relatively non-stressed out; for them, this is everyday stuff, on the order of brushing your hair, except with more bullets (although that seems to be a new thing; the Flyboys I saw at home didn't pack heat) and more death. If I do say so myself, I play the part of naïve experiment to the hilt.

"Gosh!" I say. I brush my sweaty hair out of my face. "You guys sure do that a lot, huh?"

Gazzy glances at me mildly; he's picking a scab off his knee. "Yeah."

"Where've you been?" asks Nudge. "Like, most of my _life_ is fighting."

Actually, no; a relatively small percentage of her life has consisted of fighting so far. But she's only eleven. A few months is a pretty nice percentage of her life.

I don't actually know how old I am, and that strikes me a little oddly right now. I assumed it was because I might have an expiration date, or an inner timeclock controlling the time I had left until my usefulness was at an end. Yet I had been explicitly told that my usefulness was potentially limited only by my success; I had been designed for a longer-than-human lifespan.

When the project that eventually produced my production group and I began, Germany was held by Nazis, who held that those of Germanic origin were inherently more valuable than those of Slavic descent... or any other, really. Yet even though they were more perfect, they weren't as perfect as they'd have liked to be. And their soldiers were disappointingly imperfect as well.

So Operation Übermensch began -- I don't know exactly what it was called, but I recall it being called that -- in the spring of a year before the start of the second World War, with the drawing up of plans.

Of course, at the time, the structure of DNA was not yet known -- Watson and Crick would not complete their work for almost another twenty years. I should rather say that the structure was not completely known. I believe there were guesses.

So of course, experimentation of that sort did not really begin until the 1960s, and then tentatively. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Nazi Germany.

When the Operation began, a woman named Marian Janssen was the wife of one of the minor scientists. The only Jew blood in their family was almost seven generations back, and both of them were blonds, with clear blue eyes.

At that point in time, Marian -- later to become the Director -- was around forty years old. She received no notice even in official Nazi documents. Why? Because she was the wife of Herbert Janssen. Her duty was to keep the homefront.

Well, it _was_ her duty. In approximately 1939 (I remember because it was just before the _blitzkrieg_ on Poland), her husband was puzzling over the newest plans at the kitchen table while Marian prepared coffee for him. Looking over his shoulder as she served him (he took no cream and a little sugar in his coffee), she commented on some alterations that could be made which would increase efficiency.

Of course, he believed she was making supportive small talk, but nonetheless, he presented her ideas the following morning. After testing, it was widely agreed that Herbert's idea was better than the competing ideas at increasing efficiency. (At this point, the Operation was in its infancy. They were experimenting with steroids and various other drugs.)

From that point on, Marian was considered an unofficial advisor on the Operation. She proved herself invaluable, what with the dearth of valuable scientists in Germany; many had fled for the safety of the United States and England.

And of course many of the men involved in the Operation really didn't know what they were doing without Marian's guidance. They had a destination, but no roadmap. They knew where they were going, but they didn't know how to get there.

Marian was an exception to the general German rule of women at home, men at work. Besides, most of her advising took place at home, when she spoke to Herbert about his day's work; he was responsible for relaying her ideas and recommendations to the group the following morning. She was, more or less, the perfect German wife: remaining at home and keeping it safe for her husband, while still providing vital support to the Operation.

As the war began to turn against Germany, the men working on the Operation found themselves doubting their purpose. It was not Marian who constructed a new raison d'etre for them. It was a scientist whose name has slipped my mind, who said that it was their duty not to serve the Third Reich, which might fall after its thousand years' term, but to serve humanity at large. To create better soldiers.

By war's end, all of them had thrown together plausible false identities. Since they had, technically, not participated in war crimes -- their experiments used volunteers (although they were chosen from the camps) -- had, in fact, almost attempted to stop them (as those taking part in their experiments were removed from the camps, and many were allowed to go forth and start new lives after the trial ended), they were technically blameless. But that was a word that might betray them -- technically. Marian and Herbert were among the few who chose to keep their true names and identities.

After the war, work picked up again with a vengeance. By the 1960s, suggestions began to be made that, instead of drug-induced, possibly temporary superiority, gene-based, permanent alterations should be attempted. At the time, the safety of gene experimentation was much doubted. So Marian and Herbert volunteered to do the one thing most scientists never, ever do:

They used themselves as the alpha test subjects of the experiment. It's always a gamble when you do that; sometimes it doesn't turn out well, as poor Franklin Burt learned to his dismay.

Luckily for the Janssens, things turned out fine, and experimentation switched from drug-focused to DNA-based. By the late 80s, most of the kinks had been worked out, and production of my production group began. They knew more or less what final product they'd get. They didn't know how we would react.

Oh, don't believe what you're told. No real scientist believes that subjects are machines, anymore. Animals are not clockwork. They don't act like it, either. And humans are, more or less, a variety of chimpanzee. All they were doing was continuing research in chimpanzees, if you want to argue it the one way. You can also argue that, when we were produced, the experiments had just moved up to final human trials, and we were the products of those trials.

And yet. While I know this, my extended family tree, as it were (my biological parents -- the producers of the sperm and the egg that eventually combined to form me -- were employees of Itex), all by heart -- knew it before I was eight -- I don't know my own age. These kids? The Flock? They at least know how old they are. They don't have families, they don't have a home -- both excluding Iggy somewhat -- but they're... they have something I don't. It's been said that that _something_ is a soul, but as I may have forgotten to say, I believe that my production group is ensouled... depending on how you define the word.


	14. On the Run pt 4

I'm going to let you imagine about a month or two passing now. My leg seems to be getting better. Maximum acts no friendlier towards me, except for thanking me for choosing to take graveyard watch. Fang seems weirdly protective, of me in particular. Iggy is the one who acts most "normal". Nudge asks questions, and I build up the backstory of this face.

Miranda. Age fourteen, the same as the Flock. Natural light brown hair, grey eyes. History of escape attempts. Hails from the Midwest.

Oddly brief, for a story that must be fairly realistic. But most lives are brief on paper, I suppose. I almost feel guilty about Miranda (_for_ Miranda, really). She sounds kind of interesting.

What does make me feel guilty? Well, is anyone truly comfortable with playing Judas? And of course, it fits into character too. Handy.

And then one night I can't take it. I'm scared because the face -- Miranda -- is trying to break training, and I'm scared that because she feels like this, I could too.

We're sitting around the campfire, in a silence.

"Thanks, guys," I say.

"What?" Iggy says.

"Thanks." I repeat myself. "For letting me come along with you for a ways. I just feel kinda skeevy. 'Cause I don't contribute much. And I just freeload off you guys."

I go on, Miranda's confession, maybe. But it's also mine, in a way. I was born to act.

Eventually she hits a bad point and storms off. Fang comes up behind me while I catch my breath.

He kisses my cheek, chastely; after telling them about the honest guilt I feel, I'm exhausted. No one in my production group is any good at revealing their real emotions: we lie about them too much. Fang and I have been -- if not "together" -- in each other's company long enough that he probably knew most of the story long before today. It's telling the rest of the Flock -- telling the infamous Maximum -- that's the problem.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he says lowly, pitching his voice so I'm the only who hears.

"I can't," I mutter; the rags of my training cry out. I am not supposed to tell the truth, but there's already a hole in the dam.

"I should have known something was wrong," he says, mouth not four inches from my ear.

"Don't be a martyr," I tell him. I do it enough for the both of us.

"You remind me of myself a little," he says. "You keep trying to hide the cracks until something finally breaks..." He puts his arms around me, pulling me close to him.

My eyesight is starting to blur up; I sniffle back tears as best I can. Too bad; tears start creeping down my face anyway. My nose will probably be running in a moment or two; I remember that I don't have any tissues.

Instead of saying anything, he just holds me in his arms. I lean back, crying for the first time since I was two, and totally beyond caring that this might mean the failure of the mission and the end of my short life. The only thing I care about is that Fang is holding me in his arms, and that it feels so good to have someone I wasn't raised with care about me.

He frees one hand and fishes in his jeans pocket, producing a pack of tissues, undoubtedly stolen from somewhere. He presses one into my hand and I blow my nose, wipe most of the tears away.

"Why?" he whispers in my ear. "Why do you try to hide it?"

"I'm not supposed to show emotion." Maybe if I talk quieter he won't hear me, it won't have really happened.

"You're not superhuman," he says.

"I was supposed to be." I sniffle, wipe my nose. My eyes are probably all bloodshot. We were supposed to be better than human. Turns out all we are is separate.

"Then I guess we're both mistakes." His hand moves up to my cheek, wipes away the tears. He puts a kiss where the tears were.

I've been standing on my bad leg all this time, and some blood is leaking out from under the bandages, drying on my leg and jeans. Suddenly the leg gives out. He doesn't let me fall; goes down to the ground, supporting me in his arms. I know I'm too light; I haven't been able to eat much thanks to the stress. And I've always been thin.

I sit down awkwardly, stretching my bad leg out in front of me. "I think it's bleeding again."

"Let me see," says Fang, our unofficial medic.

I bend, roll the leg of my jeans up, then realize it's too high up on my leg to expose that way, blush, and start fumbling to undo my jeans. The denim over the bandages is dark with blood.

He grabs my wrist; "There's no time." He produces a knife from somewhere up his sleeve, starts sawing away at the fabric. The denim gives way and he flips it aside; cuts through the sodden bandages. He glances at the exposed wound, then says "Just take them off."

I'm afraid, I'm tired; I take off my jeans slowly, deeply embarrassed. The only thing preserving my modesty is my long t-shirt and the same pair of briefs underwear I've been wearing for weeks. I try not to care about his hands unwinding the makeshift bandages, skimming ever closer to the bare skin.

I can read the emotion rolling off him easily; I can't see his face, but I can feel the tense set of his shoulders, the way his hands shake as he takes off the bandages and tosses them aside.

"Miranda," he says. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It was getting better," I say. He takes off the final bandage, which is starting to scab over. I can't read any disgust from him.

"Get your belt," he says. "You thought this was just going to be okay?" I bend sideways, scrabble my jeans over towards me, take the belt out of the belt loops. I hand it to him and he gently puts it around my thigh, easing it up until it's well past the wound, nearer my hip than my knee. He threads the end into the metal piece, tightens it until it bites into my leg.

"I don't know a lot about medicine," I say timidly.

"It's not as bad as you think," he says. "I wanted to stop the bleeding so I can clean it out."

"Okay," I nod.

"It's going to hurt." He eyes me suspiciously.

"I'll be fine," I promise.

"Okay," he says. "Don't loosen that belt."

He steps off into the dark, kneels, and fishes a water bottle out of his backpack. He walks back towards me; it's the blue Nalgene.

He shakes it; "It's clean." I hope so. He kneels beside me, unscrews the top, and dips a tissue from the pack he gave me into the water. He smiles. "Try not to pass out."

I grit my teeth; he dabs cautiously around the edges, cool water dripping down my thigh. For a moment it feels fantastic, cold against the warm night; then it starts to burn on the exposed nerve endings. I should have cleaned it myself; I wouldn't have to be here. I shouldn't have gotten shot at in the first place. Why do I even have to be here?

I tilt my head back, look up at the stars. You can see the Milky Way tonight, and that reminds me of a song I haven't heard in years. I still don't know the name, but the lyrics go:

"And it's up she goes, up she goes…" I think it was in "Titanic", because it's Rose's voice singing in my head. Oh, memory is such a funny thing.

It's weirdly peaceful tonight; I can hear the Flock talking around the fire. One of them mentions my name:

"…think she's all right?"

Iggy's voice. Why?

Footsteps crunch in the leaves; Fang jerks back from my leg. It's Maximum.

"Fang," she says flatly.

He rises to his feet. "She was bleeding."

"And?" I can't even see her, but the impatience carries in her voice just fine. I know she doesn't want me here. I try to shrink into a minimally offensive ball, but then I discover that I've fallen onto my back. When was that?

"Not bad." He wrings his hands. "Might be infected."

She doesn't say a word for a moment. They all know I got nicked when Fang and I left Blue Heaven; that I'd gotten nicked again in the same leg we fought the Flyboys.

Then she kneels and lays her hand on my forehead. It's cool, and I realize that's a bad sign: avian hybrids burn hot.

"Fever."

He says nothing; looks at her. What does she intend to do?

"Think we should take her to the doctor?"

I'm about to consider letting them leave me here -- because I'm not family, why risk their freedom for me? -- and almost considering taking off my earring so I can get home fast, never mind the mission.

Then Max says, "Yeah. I guess we can risk it?"

She leans over me, looking into my face.

"You think you're okay to fly?"

"Yeah." My voice sounds tiny.

"Be ready tomorrow." She gets up, walks off. Suddenly I'm really tired. Where's Fang? Suddenly, he's not there. His silence makes a sound, and now it's really quiet.


	15. On the Run pt 5

Then it isn't quiet at all; the darkness is full of a rhythmic sound like a mechanical heartbeat, then brass highlights picking up the light of a candle. Why is it so dark?

"Surely you know her," says a voice, almost familiar.

The room is dark because the electricity has gone. Her name is Titanic. Where is everyone? The engines are working -- sounds like full speed -- but there's no one here. No one but me and…

"Andrews is the name," says the voice. "First name Thomas."

The candle flares implausibly, and I see him better. Why do I know his face?

"Everyone's dead these ninety-six years," he says. "Including myself." He smiles. "I had her put on her best face for you. She's not so pretty, any more."

She wouldn't be, not with the rusticles, and the engines silent. And the bones… oh, God, the bones.

"Oh, my lady carries no bones." He lifts the candle higher, illuminating more of the engines. They move -- with what fuel I don't know -- like the insides of some huge clock. Ticking away the years. "The little sea beasties got rid of those a long time ago. There are no ghosts of bones here."

I wonder where the ship -- where she -- could ever be going, at the bottom of the cold Atlantic.

"Oh, she's going nowhere in particular." He smiles, and the candle makes a Halloween monster mask of his face. Familiar and kind goes to terrifying and monstrous with the flicker of a candle.

"Nowhere but hell." He grins. And the specters of dead workmen, dead steerage passengers, dead everybody rise up around me. Why didn't you save us?

"And she's already most of the way there."

" 'Ship of dreams', my fat arse," says a different voice -- not Andrew's Irish, but more of a Midwest accent. Midwesterner trying to be British. Someone squeezes my hand. "Terror of my childhood."

I open my eyes. It's the little girl, grown.

"Was four when my parents went to see it in theatres; thought they'd take me along with. They worried I wouldn't be quiet. Oh, I was quiet."

Her voice does something strange, and I could swear she becomes the officer.

"Is there anyone alive out there? Can anybody hear me?" She shakes her head. "They haunted me. In my sleep."

Her voice climbs and cracks, lilts:

"Come, Josephine… in my flying machine… and it's up she goes… up she goes…"

Then she says:

"Way-gup, way-gup!"

Her voice changes, becomes like Fang's:

"Come on, Miranda."

Gazzy, who never liked me anyway:

"Maybe we just leave her?"

"Too heavy on my conscience."

Maximum!

I jerk my hand from hers and try to see. It works, and there she is. No. That isn't Maximum? Fang. Must be Fang.

"Hey," I say.

"Time to go."

My head feels like… well, it feels like shite. As Tommy would probably stay. Say, I mean.

Fang looks at me like I've grown an extra head. Oh.

"Doctor time for me, I guess," I say as brightly as I can.

"She's not exactly a people doctor," says Fang warningly.

"Oh, that's okay," I say gaily. "I'm not exactly a people either."

I get the feeling I'm more than a little loopy right now, but oh, who gives a flip? As de kids say, I would hit that like the fist of an angry God. I mean, Andrews. Yes.

Everything from then on is a fuzzy, pleasant blurring. I think eventually we get to the doctor, because there's something about Cheflet or maybe Keflex and how in the world did I get here?


	16. On the Run pt 6

(Warning: Sorry to interrupt you, but this is the sex chapter. Skip it if that's not your thing. And... well, if you're going to skip to it, that's your business, but once Fang enters the room, non-sex-interested readers, bail.)

At first it looks like it's Andrews sitting patiently at my bedside, smiling like he knew I was going to wake up soon. Then it looks more like an affable Jack Dawson, and then I realize it's not even male. She's a teenage girl, maybe fourteen, with pretty, tan skin.

And she's asleep. I figure that maybe that isn't such a bad idea and close my eyes again. She makes a whuffly noise in her sleep and I sigh. God, I'm tired. Screw tired, actually: I've probably been outed as not-exactly-female, so I'm pretty much counting seconds until my certified painless demise.

Then I hear voices in the corridor outside: a woman I don't know.

"I'll just go in and check on Miranda, then." Oh, good. My cover is holding up.

The girl in the chair stirs, probably blinks her eyes to look more awake.

I keep my own eyes shut; better to fake being asleep right now. The woman says:

"Were you sleeping?"

Someone -- I'm guessing the girl -- says dutifully, "No, Mom."

Then the woman turns her attention to me. "And stop pretending you're asleep, Miranda. I can tell, you know."

I open my eyes, and the woman sweeps into view. Tall. Skin like the girl's, with dark eyes. Hispanic features. Kind face.

"You feeling okay?" she asks. And that reminds me of Maximum. And then the officer -- Fourth Officer Somebody.

"Um. Yeah."

"Good," she says, and smiles. "Fang says he wants to see you."

I nod. "Sure."

"Really?" she says, eyeing me somewhat dubiously. "You didn't look so hot when Max brought you in."

"Well, how bad was I?" I'm genuinely somewhat interested; I was raised in the presence of many, many doctors, and I'm used to getting this sort of spiel. I find it morbidly enjoyable, actually.

"You sure you want to know?" she asks.

"Yeah, pretty sure," I say, and I realize that the girl's been watching me talk to her mother for the entire conversation.

"Well, your leg will be just fine," she says, "but you may have a pretty big scar once it heals up."

"I don't wear a lot of short skirts anyway," I comment casually.

"The infection was what had me worrying for a while," she continues. "You had a pretty bad fever, but I gave you some K -- antibiotics, and you should be back in commission pretty soon." She grins and pats me on the shoulder. "Just be careful, and try not to do it again." She gets up and starts for the door. "Now, I'm going to go get Fang."

I want -- I really want -- to just lie back and let her go get him, then see what comes next, but I've got a question on my mind. "Ma'am?" I ask timidly.

"Yes?" She turns back towards me, smiling faintly.

"I was just wondering -- what's Cheflet?" She looks puzzled, and I add, "Keflex, maybe?"

Her expression changes; she gets it. "It's an antibiotic."

"Oh," I say. No wonder. "I thought I heard something about it while I was -- you know --"

"Delirious." She finishes my sentence, turns to the door, opens it, steps out into the hall. "C'mon, Ella," she says, and the girl in the chair levers herself out of it. "You can sleep in the living room." Her voice drops, and she adds, "It's not nice to stare, Ella, you're thirteen, you should know that by now."

Ella makes a noncommittal noise as she exits the room. I smile; dunno who's watching, but I do it anyway: habits are hard to break, haven't you noticed? Even when they're not particularly bad.

I have a moment to myself before the doctor returns. I haven't got a cyanide pill, or a false tooth with poisoned gas inside, so all I can do is wait. Which I do, offering up a token prayer and I lie. I may not have any evidence for God, but that doesn't mean I shouldn't ask for as much help as I can get. Just for kicks, I cross myself as well -- which is, I discover, a bit awkward when lying in bed.

Fang enters after a short interval, accompanied by the doctor, who stays a moment and says to me:

"Miranda, if you ever want to talk, just ask."

This is mildly strange, but eh, humans.

Fang sits down in the chair which Ella until recently occupied. He looks tired, but then again, he always does.

"You feeling okay?" he asks.

"Yeah." I nod. I pause, then say:

"Did I say anything really incriminating? The doctor said I was, um, delirious for a while."

He shakes his head. "Nah." Which almost certainly means that I did, but it was minimally threatening, maximally humorous. He might actually mean I didn't say anything, but I'm pretty sure I did, and besides, who just says "Nah" for real anymore? Not exactly that many people.

He sits for a moment, silently as always, and I look up at the ceiling.

"Sit up," he says.

"Why?"

"You just look like you need a hug." He makes an innocent face, but I can tell it's just a mask. I've worn a lot of masks in my time.

I bring myself to a sort of sitting position, and he wraps his arms around me. I realize that all I'm "wearing" is the sheet, and modestly try to cover up my crotch. I'm not wearing any underwear.

"Hey," he says, "do you want to go outside?"

"Nah," I say. "It's cold and I'm wearing a sheet."

Like the last night he held me, his mouth is close to my ear, so I'm the only one who hears him.

"Miranda," he says, and trails off, then starts again:

"Miranda, Doctor Martinez told us." I can feel my heart rate trying to climb. I will it to remain calm, at a resting pulse. "Miranda, I don't care that -- you used to be a guy. I still like you."

He kisses my cheek (again like the other night), and I feel my pulse skyrocketing again. This time I let it rise. It's a perfectly natural reaction. The problem is if it drops -- I'm relieved that it wasn't my other secret. Now I have to play this role.

His lips linger on my cheek for a moment; then he lifts them away and plants a row of kisses down my neck, continuing almost to my chest. It makes me feel very vulnerable, very trusting, and I tilt my head back, exposing more of my neck. I ca feel my pulse thudding briskly along.

"I thought you were dating Max," I say, not quite breathless. He smiles -- his mouth has paused in the hollow below my collarbone, and I can feel him smiling against the skim there -- and says:

"We broke up a while ago."

"But--" I start to interject, but he interrupts my interjection, moving his mouth over my collar bone. "I thought--"

"Does this seem like a time for thinking?" he says teasingly, running his mouth lightly onto my shoulder.

"Well, I never stop thinking--" I begin, and he cuts me off again, this time by running one of his hands along the joint where my wing meets my back.

"Besides, my door swings both ways," he says, and runs his hand lightly down my torso beneath the sheet, briefly grazing my hip. His hand moves around towards my front, and he cups the joint in his palm for a moment. I can't help it -- I make a squeaking noise in surprise.

"Ssh," he says. "Some people are trying to sleep."

For some reason, this is inexpressibly funny, and I burst into quiet, restrained laughter. Fang snickers as well -- even he isn't immune to humor.

At some point I wind up on my back in the bed, the sheet cast carelessly aside -- probably puddled on the floor beside the bed -- Fang's hands (and mine, I admit) busily at work. For a moment I think, absurdly, of home in Germany, the dull voice of a scientist narrating footage:

'Subject Omega showing signs, symptoms of physical arousal. Heart rate steadily climbing.'

I remember the earring. It's providing data, even right now, to the data center back at home. Is that what I am? Just an experiment, unwittingly providing data for God-knows-what?

Fang speaks, voice necessarily low:

"You're mine."

My back arches, carrying my consciousness up. You're mine. Having belonged to someone all my life, it should grate by now. But no -- I'm glad to be his.

After that, everything is even more muddled up. I'm sure you understand. Fang has the presence of mind, at some point in the night, to struggle back into some of his clothing, so we might barely pass for a case of Fang deciding to keep me company and me deciding to share the bed. That's it. That's all. I'm not even momentarily worried about Maximum's reaction -- all that matters is that when I fall asleep and when I wake up, Fang has me securely in his arms. I am home.


	17. On the Run pt 7

In the morning, after she loans me some clothes (joking that she had to burn my old ones and suggesting I'm just about Ella's size -- which is funny, since Max is too), and cooks me breakfast in bed -- toast and tea has never tasted so good -- Doctor Martinez says to me:

"Miranda, I know it's hard to be a mutant."

"Yeah," I say, sipping my tea. "Always on the run, always watching my back."

"And I know it must be hard to be transgendered while you're going through all that, too." She takes my hand in hers. "So if you need someone--"

"You'll be available," I finish.

"Yep," she says, and squeezes my hand briefly before releasing it. "Just drop by any time."

"Okay," I promise. "I will."

I think about waking up this morning -- how Fang was already awake and it felt so good to wake up feeling safe and warm next to him. And how he said "Good morning" -- sleepy, loving. It really is a good morning, because of him.

Excuse my mushiness -- oxytocin, a hormone released by cuddling, tends to make one more mushy in general.

Fang had gone off to shower and change his clothes; he returns now, poking his head into the room, asking Dr. / Mrs. Martinez where breakfast is. She tells him that it's get-your-own in the kitchen, and he smiles at me, then ducks back into the hall.

When I woke up, it was about ten o' clock at night; late enough that most people in the house were abed. That was why Ella had been asleep in the chair, and why Fang had arrived looking tired and disheveled -- he had been dragged out of bed when he heard that I'd woken up. Dr. Martinez had told me all this while she got me clothes and watched me eat breakfast.

Now I look up from my reverie. "Dr. Martinez?"

"Yes?" she says.

"Can I go down to the kitchen to eat with everyone else?" I ask.

She looks somewhat surprised before saying "Well, I don't see why not."

I smile. "Thanks." I've been sitting on the bed all this time, and now I get up and walk past the chair into the hall. Dr. Martinez watches me go, then sighs and gets up herself, leaves the room, and goes left down the hall. Once she's gone, I let the wall hold me up as I stare at the opposite wall. The muscles in my thighs ache a little, and so do the muscles in my lower back, to a lesser extent. One of the diplomas on the wall reads: 'Awarded to Valencia R. Martinez'. A small voice whispers in my head

(Valentine)

but that's just nonsense. I'm still recovering from an infection. I should probably take it easy; walk right back in to the room, lie down for a while, maybe fall asleep.

No. Anyway, I'm still hungry, and the needs of the body, like it or not, trump those of the spirit. I follow the scent of cooking pancakes -- Iggy's specialty -- to the kitchen, where I find the entire Flock sitting around and munching on pancakes (munching, munshun, malshun) says the little voice, but I ignore it.

"Morning, Miranda," says Iggy. I can't figure out how he does it. The cooking is easy, I guess, but I don't know how he knows who's in the kitchen. It's probably the way I sound when I walk, but it's easier to pretend I don't know. It makes me feel normal.

I take a pancake from the plate on which it's sitting and hop up on the kitchen counter to sit, looking out the window into the country outside. Arizona is quite the lovely place. Much different from Germany, or even the country near Algul Siento, but still beautiful. It's like a Minimalist painting compared to an Impressionist painting (of which I prefer van Gogh especially): both are beautiful, but in different ways. This landscape is simpler, yet just as elegant as Germany in its own way.

Where was Algul Siento? I estimate it was four to five days north and east of here. Since here is in Arizona, I assume Algul Siento to be... well, anywhere from Colorado to Canada, or Colorado to North Carolina. That's a wide stretch of country.

God, how huge the United States are. Texas alone is bigger than France or Britain. Both of them combined, even.

"Hey, you gonna eat that?" says Gazzy, interrupting me. Of course it's him.

"Oh. No," I say, and hand him my pancake. Which is cold anyway. Guess I'm not that hungry after all.

I hop down from the counter and mutter, "I'm going to go take a walk." Fang glances up from his pancake.

I find the front door (which is, naturally, at the front of the house), and step out into the air. It's warm out, and I don't know why I'm surprised: it's Arizona. Perhaps it's that it's so relatively early in the morning: eight o' clock, I think.

I open my wings and spread them out; I can already feel the sunlight warming them. I am suddenly tempted to go out for a quick flight; the Martinezes seem to live in an isolated enough area that it's plausible. So I decide to succumb to temptation... but not yet. Because someone is walking up behind me, and I've got a feeling I know who it is.

"Fang," I say.

When I look behind me, no one is there. Maybe the stress is finally getting to me. That'd be a laugh.

I feel oddly rested, calm... focused. It's a good feeling for me. It reminds me of being at home in Germany, about to go out on a mission. There's nothing left for me to worry about. Nothing's worth worrying about anymore. Because I've decided to tell him the rest of the story. Of course breaking cover is a cardinal sin, but...

I think of a poem by Yeats. I never learned more than a few lines, the ones that run "Things fall apart, the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world". I don't really remember why I know them. But now I'm thinking about poetry, and I remember some lines by Stephen Crane; " 'It is bitter, bitter,' he said, 'But I like it Because it is bitter And because it is my heart.'" And then there's Sappho; "You may forget but Let me tell you this: someone in some future time will think of us".

I've always heard that one as being spoken in a woman's voice, softly; now it's more like Fang is saying it to me, whispering in my ear.

I'll bet you're asking yourself why the hell _I_, the emotionless turncoat Omega / Miranda, needed to know poetry, and why he would -- how he _could_ -- find meaning or comfort in it. Why? First, it probably involved my mission at the time. Second, no matter what a pair of wings says, I'm 100 percent human. My genetic makeup may not be all _Homo sapiens_, but I was raised by humans, and I identify as one. It's a slippery slope. Go investigate somewhere else.

Because -- again -- I heard someone coming up behind me. And this time I _know_ it's not nerves. The sensory input is factual.

"Fang?" I say.

"Don't wear it out," says his voice. I turn around -- there he is. Dressed in black as usual.

"What?"

"You've never heard it? 'That's my name, don't wear it out'." He grins.

"Oh. I -- yeah."

He raises an eyebrow and says, "Miranda --"

But I've already launched into my spiel. "Fang, I want to talk to you, can you stay out here for a minute, thanks."

He blinks in a "Whoa, jeez; girls" way. "I wanted to ask if --"

"What?"

"You were going to come inside and have breakfast."

"Um. No." Oh Lord. Where to _start_? "I -- it's kind of about last night."

"What, you have AIDS?"

I stare at him for a moment before realizing that was almost certainly a joke. "No -- I mean --" I sigh and look down at my feet. "Look, it's kind of like how I used to be a guy."

He's starting to get That Look on his face -- the thing humans do when they start preparing to be emotionally very, very far away. The thing that means: Go ahead. Make my day.

"My name -- I've been lying since I met you." For a moment I'm all a-stumble over what to say. Then I catch back up to myself. "I'm not actually Miranda." I catch my breath. "I'm not even from the States. I'm from Itex Germany." Oh, now I'm on a roll. And it feels weirdly _good_ not to be performing. "My real name is Omega." Now I've got his attention -- he raises one eyebrow. "Yeah. The one Max told you about."

He raises both eyebrows. "Whoa." Which is an appropriate response, but it's not like I'm paying attention to little things like that -- I'm worried about what he's going to do next. Like maybe kill me. "I should have guessed."

My shoulders tense up; my reflexes are screaming for me to bug out right fucking now, and I can feel my wings twitching. It's like... I would say it's like I did speed, but I've never done speed. More like a dose of caffeine -- suddenly my brain's running two thousand miles a minute (which is about 120000 miles per hour, by the way) and my heart rate's _way_ up. Adrenaline. Lots of it, dumping into my system. Fight or flight reaction at its best.

"What?" I say, for the first time in my life really _fighting_ to keep my voice steady and smooth. "What should you have noticed?"

"Your eyes," he says, and it would be sickeningly sappy if I didn't feel as jazzed-up and ready-to-go as a fighter plane. At some point he's stepped closer to me, and he brushes at the skin under my eyes with his thumb. Right eye, left eye. "Max said they were like coins -- cold, lifeless, _metallic_." He inhales softly. I hope he's not smelling me; I have some pretty disastrous BO right now. It strikes me what a _weird_ subject that is to be thinking about right now. "They're more like fish -- glittery, flashy."

"Great," I say. "My eyes are fish." It's a survival mechanism -- repeat the statement, buy yourself time.

"And she said you were emotionless, that Angel couldn't read anything off you --"

"Best acting I ever did," I say. It was. Except maybe this -- which admittedly, isn't all acting.

"-- and I can't believe that, if you know what I mean." I know _exactly_ what he means, and I point to the bank of windows facing us from the house. The entire goddamn _Flock_ is watching us.

"Fang." My heart rate's starting to drop. Thank you, God, for oxytocin. "Everyone can see us. Turn it down a little."

"Why?" He grins. "They can't hear us."

"It's worse than that, Fang."

"What, are we being filmed? Am I on Candid Camera?" Again the grin. "Because if so --" At which he picks me up. One hand under the shoulders, one hand under the knees. I squeak in surprise.

"Fang, put me down!"

He snickers. "What, while I'm on TV?"

"No, I'm serious. My earring tells Itex where I am. If I take it off, they send Flyboys to come get me."

"Really?" he asks, and snaps his teeth gently together -- click, click. "Grr."

"Yeah, really. Need I provide a demonstration?" I move one hand up to my ear, as if to pop it out. Fang finally gets the message and puts me down.

"No thanks," he says. I smooth my hair into place, even though it's perfectly fine. "I -- doesn't it have an off switch?"

"No." He's taking this _far_ too well. I keep expecting a knife to appear in his hand. "And if I don't ring in in another eighteen months and say I need more time, they come and get me."

"More time for what?" Oh shit.

"I was supposed to befriend you and get the Flock to trust me, then phone home and get you all hauled in." He tenses up -- it wouldn't be perceptible to a normal human, but I can read him like a book.

"Well, you did one of those beyond expectations?" He's remarkably calm.

"Which is?" Even though I know the answer.

"Get me to fall in love with you," he says. "I suspect it's mutual."

"Yeah." I pause. "It is." Which would ring sappy if I didn't feel like my heart was about to jump right the fuck out of my chest. And if I weren't so buzzed. What did I say? Adrenaline's a hell of a drug.

Just like speed. And caffeine.


	18. Home

I'm standing in front of the Director again. Last time I was here, it was presenting a report on how the Flock are of vastly more use free than captured. That was just a few hours ago.

Now I'm here for a different purpose.

"Dr. Janssen," I say once she turns her attention to me. "While I was deployed on my last mission, several factors brought it to my attention that I may not be the best choice for active service."

I tap the pile of papers I've just placed on her desk. "This top file is a treatment I wrote detailing why I believe myself unfit. Then there are some psychological examinations."

"Omega," she says patiently, "what are you asking me?"

I plunge grimly ahead. "Dr. Janssen -- Marian -- shortly before my deployment, I noticed that you were asking for a volunteer for field observation. Lately, that announcement has been updated to include details, including the subjects to be observed, which I found interesting." I touch the desk with my hand. "Dr. Janssen, I believe I am uniquely qualified for the field assignment. I am familiar with the subjects, and subtracting me from my production group will effect no detriment upon their morale."

She sighs. "Normally, Omega, I'd say no. Your emotional attachments would only get in the way of such an assignment. However. Upon review of your case, I've decided that yes, you can go."

I nod, smile. "Thank you." I leave her office, smirking just a bit.

They should have sent a poet.


	19. Epilogue & Note

Epilogue / Author's Note:

Wow. I don't know how long it's taken you to get here, but my time right now, it's late on the night of 31 March. I began this on 28 February. That's more than a month getting from there to here for me. And God, does it feel good to pen these final words.

Well. Tell me what you thought on your way out.

And don't forget to tip your waitress.

(Nathan checking in here as typist -- a good bit of the preceding chapters were handwritten. It's taken you the entirety of April (more or less) to get from there to here if you've been following from the start. More likely, not that long if you've come along after the fact.

(Now that I've finished updating, I'm off to NaNoWriMay. I might begin the rewrite sooner than later, but odds are good that I won't even look at this until June or late May -- I've got an AP test and other finals to study for, as well as a novel to write. So by then, I'll have cooled down quite a bit over this, and will be able to rework it into a more polished form.)


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